Observations of a Yarder
by shedoc
Summary: really, the post of police surgeon may well have to go - they seemed to think that they could call upon his Boswell at any time! - continuation of Observations of a Boswell
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – I don't own them, except for Sweetie

Author notes – this is the third in the 'Observations' series, which was entirely unintentional and seems to have taken on a life of its own! (Help! How do I stop this thing?????) It's a bit angst ridden at times and carries on from things mentioned in 'Boswell'.

PS – If you want to see exactly what Sweetie looks like, google 'Harlequin Dane' and click on images…

**Observations of a Yarder**

I had not expected anger. Our relations had sometimes been prickly at best, my impatience with those that didn't think as swiftly, observe as keenly or act as rapidly as I saw to _that_. In fact I sometimes felt that if not for my Watson's generous, calming influence, our relationship would have dissolved long ago.

At the most I had expected annoyance. No one likes to be deceived, but I had expected that once the details of the matter were laid clear to the interested parties only a mild sense of annoyance would prevail.

Of course, I had not anticipated Mycroft's wilful dismissal of my wishes. When I had realised the true magnitude of my brothers' calumny I had expected righteous fury, bitter recrimination and possible repudiation… on _Watson's_ side. That had not, to my everlasting relief, happened. I had found my Boswell in a very sorry state indeed, but the dreaded rift in _our_ relationship had not occurred. It was the Yard that surprised me with its anger and irrational sense of betrayal. It was a blow to my pride to admit it, but I took two entire days, days spent accompanying my Watson to his duties to the Yard, or meeting him there once those duties had finished, to realise that the anger was not directed at me for the sake of the men in the Metropolitan force, but rather for the sake of my dear Boswell.

Once that was understood, unexpected though it was, I could tolerate it easily. I certainly never alluded to it in any way in Watson's presence. It would not do to place him in the position of mediator so soon after my return. I had no doubt that he would need to resume that role once I again resumed my active practice, but as I was rather more concerned with affecting a change for the better in his health and spirits I deemed it best not to strain him so soon after my return.

I certainly hadn't expected anger on my _brothers'_ part. He appeared to think that the three years of exile I had suffered should be treated as a golden opportunity to 'purge undesirable acquaintances from my social circle' was the exact quote I believe he tossed at me in the Strangers Room of his club. My dearest friend was attending a social engagement that had been arranged some months prior to my return and I had seen him off in good spirits, satisfied that those in his acquaintance had not forgotten him in his mourning. Watson was an excellent chap: it pleased me that others recognised his worth. I had then hied myself off to the Diogenes Club to see my brother and discuss several matters with him.

It appeared he had also wished to have a discussion, though truthfully the volume of our voices sometimes put that label in clear jeopardy. I was somewhat astonished as he abused my good Watson's qualities to my face and then deplored the time I had spent in his sorely missed company this last week. It was enough to very nearly allow me to forget my manners and lay hands on him. The doorman appeared _very_ relieved when I left without resorting to any form of _physical_ violence.

Mrs Hudson had also expressed her displeasure at my deception in what could only be termed the most _strident_ of tones, threatening several highly unpleasant consequences if I were to ever attempt a similar deception again. Her threats ranged from the ludicrous to quite frightening, and I made a note to refrain from any of the former behaviours that had so irked her in the past for at _least_ a month to ensure that her temperament settled to its accustomed level once more. As she was also incensed on my dear friends' behalf, _some_ of her rhetoric was forgivable.

Additionally, the day following the arrest of Colonel Moran saw an unwelcome blaze of publicity regarding my return 'from the dead'. The post was full of requests from simpering idiots that wished to know if I had encountered deceased loved ones in my 'travels on the other side'. Watson found this hilarious, which was the only reason I forbore from an ungentlemanly correspondence with said idiots. His amusement, even at my cost, gave his countenance a welcome air of good humour, which was my ultimate goal.

Suffice it to say that all this unexpected, and completely uncalled for in my opinion, anger and superstition made me wonder if I should return to my exile and take my Boswell with me!

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	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer – I don't own them, except for Sweetie

Author notes – this is the third in the 'Observations' series, which was entirely unintentional and seems to have taken on a life of its own! (Help! How do I stop this thing?????) It's a bit angst ridden at times and carries on from things mentioned in 'Boswell'.

PS – If you want to see exactly what Sweetie looks like, google 'Harlequin Dane' and click on images…

**Observations of a Yarder**

In the days since my return from exile, I had been fortunate enough to fall into a routine with my dearest friend. Although he continued to reside at The Limes we saw each other on a daily basis, spending most of our time together save for the occasional pre-arranged social duty. He was not the Watson I had known, though the man I had known was not irretrievably gone. There were traces of him there, flashes of the old humour, of the old strength and purpose in him. I saw it more in Baker Street than at The Limes and had already begun formulating a timetable that would culminate in his return to our old quarters.

The first Sunday of my return, Watson had an obligation in the morning and was to call upon me with the beast Sweetie for luncheon, which we were to take indoors. I was ambivalent about having the huge thing in our apartments although she had never been less than perfectly behaved. She was as indifferent to me as I was to her, though she welcomed the company of the Yarders when we came across them. Watson had assured me that she would warm to me in time, to which I had endeavoured to be accepting. I was not entirely sure I wanted to be the close acquaintance of such a beast.

At eleven, only thirty minutes before I was expecting to see my Boswell, Inspector Lestrade battered on the door of 221B and was admitted by the redoubtable Mrs Hudson. He sprang lightly up the stairs, bellowing for Watson, only to stagger to an ungainly halt when I emerged from the sitting room and informed him that my friend was not yet with me.

"I am expecting him in the next thirty minutes, Inspector, though I would prefer it if you didn't drag him away to the morgue," I informed the man somewhat testily. Really, this post as Police Surgeon would have to go if they were under the impression that they could monopolise my Boswell's time.

Lestrade swore, almost too quietly to be heard, pulling his watch out and consulting it hurriedly. He looked up at me and I took in his appearance, alarm beginning to stir in my mind. He had been at home himself, received an urgent message and gone to the Yard, then come here via The Limes.

"What is it?" I made a long arm and collected my hat and coat, snatched up my walking stick and hurried down the stairs towards the smaller man, "You are not consulting with Watson… though it is Yard business that has brought you here."

"Yes, and it is imperative we find him, at once," Lestrade replied, turning and leading me down the stairs, "Come along, Mr Holmes, I know where he is."

"If you know where he is, then why are you here?" I frowned, following him down onto the street. Really, the Scotland Yarders sometimes were quite the most infuriating people in the city. The criminals I tangled with were almost honest in comparison – there were times when their motives were much easier to read than that of Scotland Yard.

"I was hoping he hadn't spent the _whole_ morning there," Lestrade informed me sourly, "Or that _you_ had gone with him."

He let off a whistle to attract the attention of a cabby near the park, picking his pace up to a jog as I struggled into my coat.

"Watson merely informed me that he had an existing appointment," I caught him up easily; "He said that he would prefer to meet me in Baker Street afterwards."

"He's visiting Mrs Watson," Lestrade's words chilled me to the bone, despite the spring sunlight; "He always does on a Sunday."

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	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer – I don't own them, except for Sweetie

Author notes – this is the third in the 'Observations' series, which was entirely unintentional and seems to have taken on a life of its own! (Help! How do I stop this thing?????) It's a bit angst ridden at times and carries on from things mentioned in 'Boswell'.

PS – If you want to see exactly what Sweetie looks like, google 'Harlequin Dane' and click on images…

**Observations of a Yarder**

In the cab Lestrade tapped the window sill nervously, before taking a deep breath. I was impatient with the dramatics, but knew from his demeanour that to antagonise him now would result in stubborn silence, or a tale half told. If this matter was so vital to Watson's safety, which I suspected it was, I would need the complete facts.

"You remember, no doubt, the conversation we had about the events leading to the scar upon John's left forearm? The men that came out of the woodwork pretending to be you, and that one of them got too close and did him some real harm?" the good Lestrade's voice was flat and hard. I nodded, remembering all too well the shock I had felt upon spying that terrible scar upon Watson's arm; the sight of it had very nearly caused me to accuse my Boswell of the crime of attempting to take his own life. Lestrade had intercepted me and set me straight before I could wound my dearest friend in such a manner, for which I was silently grateful.

"Well, they were locked up of course, one and all. After the last one no one else came forward, either. I got word from the Yard this morning that the last of them, a man by the name of Matthew Jones, had apparently gotten loose from Bedlam and there was no further sign of him," the shorter man sighed as I clenched my jaw in anxiety. This Jones had proven that he was not above murdering the very man who could have supported or denied his claim.

"How could they be so careless?" I demanded, and Lestrade shrugged, his next words forestalling the explosion of temper I was about to grace him with. Watson was too valuable to me to be placed in such danger. He was alone and unprotected in a place where he would be less than alert, making him easy prey for the madman.

"Gregson is on his way over to Bedlam to take charge of the scene there. He'll let us know what he finds," my companions' voice was implacable and I forced myself to calm, "There is a good chance that John is perfectly safe at the moment, I would simply prefer that he be with an escort at all times, preferably armed."

"I concur," I replied at once, leaning forward to determine our progress. Watson would not leave my sight once we caught up to him; we had barely been reunited after my exile and no deluded madman was going to part us now!

0o0o0o0


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer – I don't own them, except for Sweetie

Author notes – this is the third in the 'Observations' series, which was entirely unintentional and seems to have taken on a life of its own! (Help! How do I stop this thing?????) It's a bit angst ridden at times and carries on from things mentioned in 'Boswell'.

PS – If you want to see exactly what Sweetie looks like, google 'Harlequin Dane' and click on images…

**Observations of a Yarder**

My Boswell was not in the graveyard.

His Wife's grave was a neat and tidy affair. Watson had obviously planted bulbs and perennials and ivy for her, as I recalled that she was a very enthusiastic gardener. The Limes had always had greenery and flowers growing both indoors and out. There had even been medicinal plants among Her garden for Her Husband to harvest as he would. The simple stone marker spoke more eloquently of my dear Watson's grief than any fancy scrollwork or maudlin verse ever could. The plot was located in a peaceful corner, with a bench situated close by: Watson could take his ease there when his wounds were too painful to allow him to stand or sit by the grave. I knew he had been sitting by it, based upon the impressions in the ground. His watch had been placed neatly underneath his hat, which rested at the foot of his Wife's grave. His stick was not in evidence, and nor was Sweetie.

Lestrade's language when we realised that Watson had met with foul play was appalling. It was all there for anyone with the slightest of skills to detect. Watson had been sitting by his Wife, the redoubtable Sweetie no doubt nearby when he had been approached by a tall, thin man. He had been compelled to place his hat and watch at the foot of the grave – or perhaps he had connived to leave said items there as a signal to us – and then had been led or impelled away from his Wife's resting place, with Sweetie in tow.

We followed the sets of tracks to a sepulchre, where Watson's stick was jammed in the door, evidently to keep Sweetie confined. The unfortunate beasts' howls of outrage were audible before we even caught sight of her place of confinement, which was located as far from Her resting place as were possible and still remain inside the graveyard. I was not at all sure that letting the animal out of its confinement was strictly safe, but the beast was familiar with Lestrade and allowed him to tie his kerchief around her collar. She was no tracker and lost Watson's trail at the same time as I did, when his kidnapper forced him into the warren of back alleys and passageways that saw more foot traffic than the main streets did.

"Sweet merciful gods," Lestrade groaned, "Now what?"

It was all I could do not to strike the man. Watson needed rescue, not despair, and only the thought that coming to blows with the man now would waste time that could be better spent stayed my hand. That and the realisation that Lestrade was every bit as distraught as Sweetie were over the loss of her Master. I had no time for dramatics though; time was now a very precious commodity. Lurking always at the back of my mind was the vision of the long scar on Watson's arm, inflicted by the very man that had escaped from Bedlam and possibly absconded with my Boswell. The situation was intolerable!

"Now, you tell me everything you know about Matthew Jones and put every available man on the alert for him. We need to begin systematically searching his past haunts and checking his known acquaintances," I replied tersely, "Once I have the information I can contact my own networks."

"Right then," Lestrade nodded, "Come on, there's a telegraph office only a few minutes away. I can get the word out while I brief you. Here, take Sweetie."

I received the end of the kerchief with some trepidation, but the beast didn't seem overly concerned with the transfer of control, easily keeping pace with us as we strode hurriedly for the telegraph office.

"Matthew Jones was a civil engineer – he mostly worked on the sewerage, drainage and storm water systems in London. He was the second born son of a moderately well off family and therefore expected to go into some sort of trade. He spent a brief amount of time serving Her Majesty in the Navy, but was discharged once his original hitch was up; the discharge was honourable, but highly unusual given the short amount of time served. He was unmarried; in fact it was widely reported that he disliked and distrusted women. He was very particular about his personal appearance, but not well liked among his peers. There was some talk of his arrogance and impatience with others. He thought very highly of his own prowess and intellect, though the few men that we could get to speak with us about their acquaintance with him said that he was no better than average in the brains department," Lestrade rattled the information off in an impersonal voice as we hurried along the footpath. We reached the telegraph office and he bustled inside, waving me in and appropriating a stack of forms, shoving a few over to me with a questioning look. I nodded and began jotting down messages as the Inspector did the same, continuing to spew information out with the delivery of a gatling gun.

"At the time of your reported death he was already beginning to act, in his colleague's words, a little off. He seemed to drift off into his own world, even when in the middle of a crowd of fellows. There were three other impostors before he made his own attempt at convincing poor John that he was you, and two of those impostors merely sought money from the good Doctor. One actually took to following him around until his own family had him admitted; they were fairly mortified by the whole thing and John was much more patient with them than they deserved in a lot of peoples opinion. Jones was different in his approach. He found a way to access John's house from the cellar by its connection to a nearby drainage system, a connection that existed for the purpose of maintenance. He would get into the house when it was empty and leave odd little messages and 'clues'. Poor John had lost Mrs Watson by this time, and was working all hours of the day and night to avoid his empty home anyway, so he didn't always see the messages in time to respond to them. At the time, the Yard was oblivious to this, as John didn't want to 'bother' anyone with 'yet another deluded soul' – you can believe we set the record straight once we recovered him! Just a moment."

I absorbed the sad news that my Boswell had been so grief stricken his only solace had been his work with no little guilt. Had I only known! Danger or no I'd have been at his side in a mere moment, if given the chance. Mycroft's cruel deception and wilful silence on the matter had very nearly cost me the man dearest to me. I had many acquaintances, but only one man in this world would I ever truly call friend. As I watched Lestrade bully the man behind the counter to ensure that his telegrams were sent post haste, my mind was whirling with a hundred and one scenarios. It was evident from his tone and body language that Lestrade was as worried as I over Watson's fate, which was as it should be; that Lestrade was expecting the worst was alarming. The Inspector had almost no imagination, which meant that Watson's previous encounter with Jones had left a very alarming impression upon his friends.

I stirred myself to meet Lestrade at the door, and we managed to secure a cab almost at once. After a small round of negotiation, that was ended only when Lestrade skirted abuse of his badge, Sweetie was also accepted as a passenger, at no extra cost, even though she took up the space of a full grown man.

"Where was I?" Lestrade cleared his throat as the cab rattled through the streets. It was clear to me that we were coming to the heart of the matter, which meant that Watson's ordeal was soon to be made clear to me. Had I but known what my absence would cause, I'd have taken him into exile with me, Wife or no.

"Jones's little visits got more frequent, and he started to leave notes of a rather sinister nature. John showed me one, and confessed that it was possible someone was accessing his home. There are copies of the notes in the Yards file, but simply put, Mr Holmes, Jones was becoming angry that 'his Boswell' was not responding to his every communication… naturally, when he did respond, John urged the man to seek help as he was clearly not who he claimed to be. There was an incident both at The Limes and his surgery when John discovered the presence of Jones in the building at the same time he was there; each time he called the beat bobby, but each time Jones got away. That was how we discovered the opening in the cellar at The Limes, which lead us in turn to Jones's identity. Unfortunately Inspector Barnwell, who was newly transferred in at the time, was not as circumspect as we would have liked and Jones somehow got wind of us closing in on him. By a series of unfortunate flukes, he took John in the dead of night and fled to an unused water reservoir. Once there he managed to hold John for a week. It took us that long to track him down…"

"And you were very nearly too late," I said in a dry voice. I didn't need to berate Lestrade for his failures; it was obvious to me that the man bitterly regretted them. Unfortunately he hadn't _learned_ from them! He had allowed the lunatic to take my dear friend one more time, and this time I doubted we had a week to trace his location.

"I assume that you've sent someone to the reservoir?" I asked coolly, getting a short nod in return. The cab pulled up outside the Yard and we descended in silence. The members of the official force on the street looked grave as they passed, nodding to the Inspector as they went about their duties. I could only hope that they would be more observant that was their wont – otherwise my Boswell was in more danger than I had first imagined.

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	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer – I don't own them, except for Sweetie

Author notes – this is the third in the 'Observations' series, which was entirely unintentional and seems to have taken on a life of its own! (Help! How do I stop this thing?????) It's a bit angst ridden at times and carries on from things mentioned in 'Boswell'.

PS – If you want to see exactly what Sweetie looks like, google 'Harlequin Dane' and click on images…

**Observations of a Yarder**

Lestrade was quick to show me to his office while he went to locate the relevant files from my poor Watson's last encounter with Jones. I was no longer allowed in the Yard's file room after a small incident where I had created a _slight_ state of disarray in their filing system. It was not as bad as some of the states I'd left our rooms in Baker Street, to my mind the duty sergeant had completely overreacted.

Sweetie settled close beside me, despite my loosing her from the Inspectors makeshift restraint. I was grateful she did not choose to lean upon my person, as she did with her Master, however the dog was watching my every move closely, her anxiety clearly visible in her dumb eyes. I was _almost_ tempted to speak to her in reassurance, as my Boswell would have, though it was an easy impulse to restrain.

As we sat in the Inspectors crushingly small office, there was a commotion from the corridor, the familiar voice of my long suffering landlady calling my name most insistently. It was the work of a moment to reach her side, extract the envelope she was crushing in her hand from her grasp without damaging it, secreting it in my pocket before depositing her in the chair that I had been occupying. Interestingly, Sweetie chose to lean against Mrs Hudson, who threw a trembling arm around the dogs neck, hiding her face in the beasts short fur for a moment, her other hand clutching mine tightly.

"Now, dear lady, you must calm yourself," I brushed my free hand lightly over her shoulder, "This will not do."

"No sir," she gasped, "Only I've been looking everywhere for you sir, especially after the Inspector came so urgently calling for Dr Watson!"

"You've found me now," I leaned down to check that she was regaining her breath and then straightened once more. It was my Watson that dealt with the hysterics and upsets of our agency, the role of comforter and advisor coming so much more naturally to him. For Mrs Hudson I would make an exception… up to a point, "Regain your composure while I examine the evidence you've brought."

Lestrade, who had been hovering in his own doorway, came forward, a curious light in his eyes as I smoothed the envelope flat upon the palm of my hand and pulled out the small glass that I always carried upon my person. It had been a gift from Watson's Wife, and was just the thing for unexpected investigations. The larger glass that I favoured once engaged upon a case was too cumbersome to carry around daily…

I recalled my wandering thoughts most sternly, the engraving on the handle of the small thing fading from my notice. The envelope had been hand delivered – it had never been through a Post Office – and the stationary was quite inexpensive, of the type that was sold commonly all over London. The ink was also of the most common sort; combined together they told me almost nothing. There was a very curious water stain on one corner of the envelope, as if it had been carried beneath something that had dripped dirty water upon the bearer and his burden.

The writer was educated, right handed and unbalanced, as evidenced by the penmanship upon the envelope. It was this last detail that concerned me the most. The envelope was addressed to 'my impostor' and gave the address of the flat at Baker Street. Lestrade favoured me with a particularly grim glance when he realised what the envelope said.

"It's Jones, I'm sure of it," Lestrade muttered, "We've a sample of his writing on file."

"Later," I replied brusquely and opened the envelope. The paper and ink upon the letter inside matched the envelope. In the envelope itself there were several minute traces that may lead to locating our quarry and his victim. I put the envelope aside carefully, vowing to come back to those traces later.

"Notice that there is no matching water stain," Lestrade pointed out, which sent him up in my opinion, "If we can isolate the source of the water…"

"Indeed," I agreed, "Well done, Lestrade…"

My voice cut off sharply when I realised that the paper _was_ stained in another location. The stain was unmistakable to anyone who was familiar with the traces of violent crime. I could only hope, and it was a faint hope at that, that Watson had scored a hit on his attacker, instead of the other way around. It would have taken something very compelling to force Watson away from his Wife's grave without a fight; part of me feared that he had been threatened with a gun, as that was the only reason I could think of that he would go so quietly from his vigil. The presence of blood on the letter was an ominous sign, and one that spoke of a shorter deadline than I would have liked. With no way of knowing the severity of the wound – or indeed who had been wounded – we would have to assume that Watson was in dire need of rescue.

Upon the paper was a simple message. Jones had made no attempt to disguise his writing in any way, shape or form, which boded ill for my Watson. If the lunatic was so confident in his victory, it was likely that the mischief had already been done.

"'Prove your authenticity. Find my biographer'," Lestrade read it aloud, upsetting Mrs Hudson just as I was beginning to think she had calmed down. I shot the Inspector a dirty look and perched on the desk opposite my landlady, offering her a quick smile.

"Did you see who delivered the message?" I asked without preamble, knowing that time may well be short.

"No sir," she shook her head in despair, "The bell rang, and that was lying on the mat. When I opened the door there was no one there, and at that time of day Baker Street is fairly busy. I couldn't see anyone suspicious, not even a lounger or street urchin. When I realised just what it was… I came looking for you at once, sir."

"Alright Mrs Hudson," I nodded, "There are several traces within the message itself that may help us to locate our quarry…"

"If you can identify them Mr Holmes I might be able to match them to Jones's file. I can bring it to your rooms in Baker Street once I've got it," Lestrade interrupted. I nodded in approval – now was not the time to quibble about who had access to the most information or even who was best able to complete the job. The envelope was addressed to me and I wasn't going to hand it over without a fight.

"I'll escort you home, Mrs Hudson," I offered. Upon hearing those words, Sweetie ushered my landlady to the door, standing with her quite protectively. This boded well for the beast's eventual instalment at Baker Street. Now all we had to do was rescue her master.

0o0o0o0


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer – I don't own them, except for Sweetie

Author notes – this is the third in the 'Observations' series, which was entirely unintentional and seems to have taken on a life of its own! (Help! How do I stop this thing?????) It's a bit angst ridden at times and carries on from things mentioned in 'Boswell'.

PS – If you want to see exactly what Sweetie looks like, google 'Harlequin Dane' and click on images…

**Observations of a Yarder**

It did not take much effort to persuade my Watson's beastly guardian to remain with our landlady. She was still a little shaken, but insisted on making tea for me, which I allowed on the theory that it would calm her nerves. Mrs Hudson, I had noted, hated to be idle; the feeling that she was unable to help, to do _something_ was abhorrent to her active and kindly nature.

I spent a few moments searching my index for Jones, which turned up no new information. If he had been descending into the madness of obsession whilst I was alive, I had been unaware of it. It was not likely that he had attempted any contact with my Boswell prior to my final battle with Moriarty; he would certainly have avoided _me_ at all costs.

Abandoning the indexes, I turned to my chemical table, settling before it with some trepidation. I had dealt with sensitive cases before, ones where I had felt the keenest of interests in the outcome of the case. I had dealt with cases before where a man's life hung on the balance of my science as well. All of those cases were as nothing in the light of this one. It was my Watson's life that hung in the balance, his safety and well-being relying entirely upon my ability to find this madman before it was too late.

I did not allow myself to dwell on that, choosing instead to divorce my emotions from the proceedings and focus coldly on the science before me. It seemed that only minutes later I looked up and perceived that Lestrade had arrived, drunk three cups of tea and smoked a cigarette while rifling through the index I had discarded upon the table. There were a stack of files at his elbow and I stood with a weary sigh, stretching muscles that I hadn't noticed cramping.

"Well sir?" Lestrade asked impatiently as I poured a cup of tea that was only lukewarm at best and downed it in a single gulp. At the back of my mind I could hear my dearest friend lecturing me to take better care of myself, and in _this_ case I had to agree. I could not afford to miss a single clue due to fatigue.

"I believe I have a general location," I began, "However it will be nigh impossible to pinpoint the exact place we want without going there in person."

I fetched out one of the many maps rolled and stored in the umbrella stand and unrolled it, spreading it haphazardly over the table and searching along the lines marked there for a moment.

"Here," I informed the Inspector, who scowled at the small print and then dove for his files. He flipped through them rapidly, though they stayed in strict order. My Watson would have approved… I drew my wandering thoughts strictly back to the matter at hand.

"He used to have a small office there – he sub-let in that area from his main office. There was a project going on that he was consulting on… ah!" Lestrade thrust the relevant page at me, "What do you think the chances are that we'll find the doctor there?"

"Unlikely," I replied, skimming through the information quickly. Jones had been working at that office when he'd begun his harassment of my grieving Boswell, "It is more likely that he has left another note. If your summary of the man is correct, Lestrade, he will want to draw this out for as long as possible."

"Then we need to find a shortcut," Lestrade muttered, "In the meantime, I assume you'll come with me to look for the next note?"

"I will," I dropped the file on top of the map, "Roll that up and bring it along, there's a good fellow."

I hurried about the room, gathering what instruments I had that were easily portable. Something was telling me that we had little to no time left in our search, and returning to Baker Street for analysis and contemplation was a luxury we could not afford.

Lestrade led the way down the stairs and I shouted to Mrs Hudson to keep Watson's beast with her while we followed the latest lead. The door slammed behind me before she could reply and we were in a cab and whirling away in a trice. I appropriated the files that Lestrade still carried and read them through as we drove, my nerves thrilling with horror as I realised how close it had been the last time this madman had hold of my poor friend.

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	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer – I don't own them, except for Sweetie

Author notes – this is the third in the 'Observations' series, which was entirely unintentional and seems to have taken on a life of its own! (Help! How do I stop this thing?????) It's a bit angst ridden at times and carries on from things mentioned in 'Boswell'.

PS – If you want to see exactly what Sweetie looks like, google 'Harlequin Dane' and click on images…

**Observations of a Yarder**

There were two possible locations indicated in the newest note, though it took me longer than I would have liked to analyse, pinpoint on a map and then confirm them both. I had no doubt that there was now a double trail, and time was running out. After some debate, Lestrade contacted Hopkins and dispatched him to what we both agreed was the least likely location, on the chance that we were following a double blind. Of the two choices – a small office above ground or a large warehouse with substantial cellars, it seemed that the warehouse offered our quarry a better playing field. We did not have time to search them both ourselves, the ominous bloodstain on the second note being larger than the first. It would not do to waste our time, and I could only hope that we were not playing directly into the madman's hands. Despite what Lestrade could tell me, the notes in the files, some of them in Watson's own soldierly script, and my own study of the clues at each site so far, I had no grasp of the madman we were searching for. His methods, his motives were impenetrable to me even after all that the Yard and my own senses could discern.

Lestrade was in no better condition. From the way his eyes roamed constantly over the people that our cab passed it was evident that he was looking for my Watson or his abductor as we travelled. His concern for Watson was to be expected, the depth of that concern was something of a surprise. I had at first been tempted to put it down to the Yard not wanting to lose the services of a highly competent surgeon, but that idea had rapidly failed under testing. Lestrade was worried about Watson as a friend and valued companion first, as a colleague second. The loss of his services would be a blow to the Yard; after all he may not have the connections, but when it came to medicine there were few better. Replacing him would be nigh impossible; there were not many doctors that were so unconcerned about irregular working hours, irregular procedures and irregular patients. The good Dr Watson was unconcerned about the social status of his patients, an intelligent observer, an able accomplice and hard to shock, which made him the ideal companion in our type of work, something that I had been quick to realise during the first case we had ever shared, involving the American Jefferson Hope.

The cab drew to a slow halt and I leapt from it quickly, a glance showing me that the building in question was to my right, derelict and deserted. I very much doubted that there would be anyone inside; even the homeless would have to be in very dire straits to risk the lives by entering that particular building. Lestrade's growl echoed my thoughts, but we could not leave the place unsearched and with cautious footsteps made our way into the crumbling building. I could only hope that Hopkins had more success in his search of the smaller building on the other side of the city.

The upper floors proved to be entirely inaccessible, and the traces in the dust and debris on the ground floor showed that no one had been in the more unstable parts of the building for some time. In the cellars – the only part of the derelict that we could reach without risking permanent bodily harm – we discovered Watson's blood-soaked overcoat.

"Shot, by the lord Harry," Lestrade muttered as we examined the object back out on the street, "You can clearly see the powder burns. Jones must have menaced him with the gun from the start."

"He would not have left his Mary so meekly otherwise," I replied distantly, "And he would have been coerced easily by a threat to the beastly Sweetie."

The shot had been from behind, and had struck Watson low in the body. I could only hope that the wound itself didn't prove fatal, and that Watson had been able, despite his lack of supplies, to attend to the wound. We now had confirmation that we were operating under a very grim deadline, one that could be shortened without warning.

The coat offered us further details – Watson had fallen when he was shot, and had attempted to furnish us with further clues by scraping traces from the floor he had fallen to into his pocket. While Lestrade stood over me in a very twitchy manner, I made a rudimentary analysis of the dust and particles I found there, trying to balance my need for haste with the need for accuracy. With such high stakes I could not afford to be wrong again.

"The second address…" I concluded, and Lestrade let out a piercing whistle so unexpectedly that I flinched, "It was a double blind."

As the cab rattled along at a terrific pace I cursed my clumsiness in not deducing that. I was too slow and too distracted by the peril to my Boswell. It was unforgivable.

0o0o0o0


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer – I don't own them, except for Sweetie

Author notes – this is the third in the 'Observations' series, which was entirely unintentional and seems to have taken on a life of its own! (Help! How do I stop this thing?????) It's a bit angst ridden at times and carries on from things mentioned in 'Boswell'.

PS – If you want to see exactly what Sweetie looks like, google 'Harlequin Dane' and click on images…

**Observations of a Yarder**

The second address was swarming with Constabulary. Grim faced men in heavy woollen uniforms moved with singular purpose about the small building. When our cab pulled up we were informed that someone had been dispatched to our previous location in an attempt to find us. The Inspector demanded to know what was happening, something that I was also keenly desirous to know.

"Inspector Hopkins was able to spot some traces of our quarry," the Constable leading us inside stated, "He followed the traces into the tunnels that this building is connected to. It's very queer down there, Inspector, if you have a trouble with small spaces…"

"Neither of us do, man," Lestrade interrupted, "He found Jones?"

"No sir, but he's located Dr Watson," was the astonishing reply, and for a moment my heart lightened, "Now all we've got to do is find a way to extract him."

"What do you mean, _extract him_?" I pounced on the ominous phrase, startling the Constable. I received a very doubtful look, but Lestrade's impatient gesture moved him to answer. We were handed lamps as we entered the building, coming across more Constables milling about inside, ransacking the meagre office. I said nothing about the destruction of traces that the commotion was causing, more intent on getting to my dear friend.

"The tunnels down here link a series of underground rivers, emergency storm water drains and some overflow passages from the canals. But there are also rooms and gratings down here, the purpose of which I can't fathom, and neither can anyone else. Dr Watson is in a small room with a grate in the ceiling and a door that's been locked. It's below the level of several of the rivers, two of which seem to be tidal. There is water filling the room he's in, and the level is rising. From what we can see on the walls through the grate the level will rise high enough to…"

The man didn't need to finish that faltering sentence. My nerves thrilled with horror at the thought that Watson could drown in the time that it took for the water to reach its peak and then recede. We were now traversing a series of damp, brick lined tunnels, both the Constable and I hunching in places to avoid striking our heads on the ceiling. The much shorter Lestrade was barely bothered by the slender headroom, directing the light from his lamp ahead with grim purpose.

"Unacceptable," Lestrade snapped, "What measures is Hopkins taking?"

"He's got a squad of us trying to find a way down to the room," the Constable sighed, "The space where the grate is has no access to the lower tunnels. From what Dr Watson has said there were markings on the wall beside him giving the height of the waters – I think the room was designed to let an observer gauge what the tidal flow was like, not that it matters much. We've got several of the men currently searching for a way down, and Inspectors Bradstreet and Gregson are above, searching for Jones. Dr Watson thinks that he's nearby – something the madman said indicated that he would be. We're also organising tools and equipment to affect a rescue. Dr Watson said that he thought the door was a new addition to his prison, so the likelihood of finding a map location for it among the official engineers that access and monitor these spaces is unlikely, and he couldn't see anything on the wall that would help us with that either. Inspector Athelney Jones is looking for help among them anyway. It's just past the corner there, sir."

I had already deduced that. There was light and the echo of voices ahead of us. I hurried my pace to almost a run, needing to see the situation for myself. Behind me I heard Lestrade ask the crucial question.

"Why don't you simply prise up the grating in the floor?"

"It's too deeply embedded sir, and…"

Hopkins was lying face down on the floor, his overcoat discarded to one side. There were no less than three Constables directing their lights onto the grating that Hopkins was lying over, his hands locked around one of the spars of the grid. His face was taut with strain, though not the physical kind, and I was by his side in a flash, all but dropping my own lamp.

I shall be seeing my Watson's face in my nightmares for the rest of my life. The grid cast a regular pattern of shadows over his white and filthy face, desperation turned his normally hazel eyes the colour of dirty dishwater. There was pain there too, drawn in the lines of his face, carved most deeply around his mouth. Watson had been shot on the right hand side of the body, which meant that his left shoulder was supporting his weight – his bad shoulder that still caused him so much pain from the war. The Constables around us were all too brawny to get their arms inside the grid – even Hopkins couldn't do it – but I shrugged out of my coat and plunged an arm inside the grating, securing a hold on Watson's soaked jacket, gripping his right shoulder and taking some of the strain from him.

"Hello, Holmes," his voice was worn thin, though there was a thread of its usual warmth in his tone, "It's good to see you, old chap."

"You are late for our luncheon," I informed him, the ridiculous words falling from my lips of their own volition. I could have cursed myself for the inanity of the observation had it not been for the faintly amused snort from the trapped man.

"A thousand apologies, I was delayed," he responded, a small but bright spark lighting his exhausted eyes, "Inspector Hopkins and I were discussing my options."

He had none that I could see, save holding on as tightly as he could. Hopkins' grip was securing him to the grid, and my own was alleviating some of the strain on his once wounded shoulder, but to hold him here for hours while we waited for the water to recede… provided of course it did not exceed the level of the grating… and even then there was no certainty that we could affect his rescue before it once more began to rise. That of course was dependent upon if he survived the blood loss that must be contributing to his ghastly pallor.

"How serious is the wound?" I blurted. My dearest friend grimaced, a very telling expression. He was a proud man who preferred not to share even the slight infirmities war had left him with. However, his situation was desperate and we could not afford pride now. My dearest friend knew this and proved it with his next words.

"The bullet is embedded in my side, though it did not do more than penetrate the muscles there. His gun is old, in very poor condition and misfired at least once," my Watson replied tiredly, "Unfortunately, I am unable to stop the bleeding except by direct pressure."

"Hence your one handed grip," I realised, "And the risk of any infection is high, that water is filthy and the bullet…" I stopped my prattling and Watson quirked a smile at me. His eyes reminded me that he was fully cognizant of the medical hazards he was facing, though he was good enough not to rebuke me aloud for stating the obvious.

"Right now it is of minor importance. I have a much more immediate and pressing challenge before me," the gallows humour chilled me further and I swore roughly at him. The men around me muttered in disapproval, but Watson took it meekly enough, telling me to leave off in a mild tone that could always bring my more rash tempers to heel.

"Sorry, dear friend," he murmured, "Gallows humour…"

"Is dead funny…" I sighed at the terrible pun, inwardly pleased when he snorted at me. The Irregulars had related that particular pun to Watson, though I was never sure _why_ they had, and he had passed it on to me, more interested in the children's ability with word play than the atrocious attempt at humour. We had then become involved in a fascinating discussion…

"If you resurrect any further puns, Doctor, I shall let go my grip," I warned him, and was rewarded with another flash of humour from his tired eyes. I would give anything to buoy his spirits, if it meant using appalling humour, so be it.

"We did sink rather low that afternoon, did we not? I think the highlight was when you began attempting puns in Latin," Watson's tone was of fond reminiscence, "Mrs Hudson was most put out to be greeted at the door with…"

"Yes, yes, dear chap," I interrupted hastily, the scene so clear in my mind. Only Watson could evoke things for me in such a manner, not even my time in Tibet had taught me to recall and experience so vividly. From the glint in his eyes, Watson was enjoying the mild tease he had embarked on, and I was resolved to allow him anything, to weather any resulting embarrassment in front of the Yard, if it would only keep him fighting a little longer. The pain and exhaustion had not receded, but the distraction was invaluable. I gave him a fond look and a moment of respite from his situation, tightening my grip in reassurance. The moment was all too fleeting though, and the pain renewed its grip on him once more.

"Watson… could you see any way out of there before the water rose?" I could repress the question no longer, my own very real desperation tinting my voice.

"I did look as best I could in the dark," Watson sighed, exhaustion and blood loss adding a slight slur to his words, "Jones left a light up there, so as to make my predicament all the more apparent I believe. This space is little more than an alcove; the door appears to be a new addition. There is a key hole in it…"

"If we find the door, I could pick the lock," I suggested, and Watson shook his head.

"I don't think the door _is_ locked, not in that manner," he replied, "It is too small for its frame, you see. From what I could tell by touch, the hinges on the door are oversized, that is what is holding it in place. He has secured it some other way, possibly by dropping a bar in front of it. Simple enough to remove from the other side, but I had nothing with which to probe the gaps, and certainly nothing strong enough to try and push the bar free from my side of the door. Repeated blows did nothing but jar _me_ – they had no effect on the door."

"If we passed you a jemmy," Hopkins offered, and I wondered why the man hadn't done so at once. Now was not the time to berate him, and I had to consider that he had come when the water level was already too high for the attempt; securing my Boswell's life would have been a higher priority to the man, not even I could quibble about that.

"I don't think I'd be able to manage it now," Watson sighed, "The water is deucedly cold. I'm beginning to lose feeling in my extremities."

That was not news to me – Hopkins grip on my Watson's hand was very tight, and my own fingers were bitingly cold where the water was splashing them. Watson himself was a horribly light weight on the end of my arm – his presence was such that he could deceive you into forgetting his appalling condition from the sheer force of his personality. There had been times in this last week where I had forgotten for hours at a stretch how low his spirits were, how tired his body was. My dearest friend was a gentleman, and did not like to display his weaknesses to others, I had learned that early in my association with him, when his wounds were still fresh enough to cause him to fall or fumble things.

Hopkins face was also tight with strain, though it was only partly physical. A glance at the men around me showed similar expressions, though the Constables also had the aspect of men standing a death watch. Their dismay was apparent to me, and I was relieved that Watson could not see them. He didn't need to know that there were those above that had all but given up on him. Of Lestrade there was no sign – I could only hope that he had gone to find a solution to this problem.

"Holmes… did you find Sweetie?" Watson's question brought me back to the horrible present, and I directed my gaze to him once more. There was no trace of fear in his face – even in such a dire situation he had faith that I… _we_ would somehow affect a rescue. I had to acknowledge that the time he had spent working solely with the Yard had indeed forged a strong bond between the official force and my Watson – not that I was surprised. He was an excellent chap, any fool could see that, and his skills as a doctor and comrade were exceptional.

"I did, she is with Mrs Hudson as we speak. They are quite amiable together, which bodes well for your return to our lodgings," I offered the distraction hopefully, and my dear friend seized it as I had hoped he would.

"I was in the habit of popping by to visit Mrs Hudson," he replied, "She was a bit doubtful about Sweetie at first, but one morning the dog surprised an intruder. They've been firm friends ever since."

"An intruder?" I asked, concern rising in me. What else of note had I missed in the lives of those around me? What else had Mycroft hidden from me 'for my own good'?

"He wanted something from your files, Holmes," my dearest Boswell confirmed my fears, "I believe he was going to attempt blackmail of a former client. You know that you've some very sensitive information in the flat, though how anyone could hope to find it in the nightmare that is your filing system…"

"I know where everything is," I lightly protested the familiar tease, grateful that his spirits were still strong enough for it. He offered me a fleeting glare, barely more than a flash of his eyes, a testament to his strength.

"You just can't lay your hands on what you want without flinging papers to the four corners of the room and shouting at me or Mrs Hudson for tidying them away," he retorted, a slight quirk to his lips that could have been a smile in other, less grim, circumstances, "Never mind the fact that we can't find the carpet, let alone the furniture, and should anyone make the capital mistake of _stepping_ on your files…"

"Why on earth did you ever stay with him?" Hopkins blurted in a wondering tone, and then blushed violently. A sound that might have been a chuckle drifted up to us from the grating we were stretched upon.

"Holmes has just as much to put up with as I did," the past tense chilled me; "I am not the most tidy of men either. We always rubbed along amicably enough."

"Which was a source of astonishment to us all at the Yard," a Constable muttered above us. I don't believe it was loud enough to be heard below floor level, though I made a note to investigate this matter further at a later date. I was not sure I liked the idea of our personal lives being fodder for discussion at the Yard.

"You were telling me about the intruder," I reminded my trapped friend, not wanting to encourage that _particular_ line of thought. We had our differences in the past, and would no doubt have them again in the future. _I would not let it be any other way._

"Yes, well the chap was moving about upstairs when Mrs Hudson and I got back from a stroll in the park with Sweetie. We'd met Mrs Hudson by accident, you see, and she was… well I think she'd been finding Baker Street a little empty. She convinced me to come back for tea, though she wasn't too sure about having Sweetie indoors. Just as we closed the front door the chap upstairs made some noise, and Sweetie was off like a shot. How she knew he didn't belong there is something I've never been able to discern, but she was up the stairs and through the door to the sitting room before we'd realised that what we'd heard was a human presence. This chap wasn't very big, and she got hold of his collar with little problem before hauling him out of the sitting room and down the stairs. She dropped him at Mrs Hudson's feet, like a cat dropping a mouse, and sat down, tail wagging. They were firm friends from that moment on."

"Good heavens," I muttered, "And the man didn't fight back?"

"Too scared," Watson replied succinctly, "Fortunately the beat Constable heard his screaming and arrived just as I was hauling the man to his feet. He was sent up for three years."

"It appears I owe the beast a treat," I reflected, "What does one buy for such an animal? And can she be trusted around my chemical corner?"

"Sweetie has never knocked a thing over, and the smells from that particular corner bother her," Watson's words reminded me of the beast's avoidance of that particular corner of our rooms, "She prefers the spot under the window, beside my old desk."

"True," I nodded, recalling the past week and the dog's habits, "Then I shall procure a blanket for her, to go in that spot."

The inane conversation petered out, though it had served its purpose of distracting my dear friend from his danger. I was finding it increasingly difficult to sustain my air of unconcern and calm. I wanted to fly through the tunnels, searching for a way to my dearest Watson. I wanted him out of this predicament and safely in our rooms at Baker Street where he belonged so dearly that my skin was crawling with the need of it. It was Watson who was the level headed one in a crisis; he was the man I had come to rely upon when things were at their blackest. I could not expect that of him now, it would be monstrously unfair to ask for such an effort on his part.

Before I could find something else for us to discuss, for the dialogue, stilted though it was, helped to keep Watson's spirits up, there was a disturbance in the water beside him and another hand shot up towards the grill. Hopkins shied away, losing his grip on Watson's hand, and for a moment all was confusion. Then the face belonging to the newcomers hand came into focus.

"Lestrade!" I cried. Watson was dangling solely from my grip on his shoulder, his left hand having slipped from the grid without Hopkins' assistance. The younger Inspector hurriedly placed one hand over Lestrade's and urged my Boswell to re-grip the grid as well.

"I've got him, Hopkins," Lestrade interrupted. From Watson's expression I surmised that the arm had gone numb with the strain some time ago, and moving it back to its former position was not on the cards any time soon.

"How did you find me?" Watson gasped. Lestrade wrapped his free arm around my Boswell, hoisting him a little higher in the water. Not that it would have mattered; my fingers were practically merged with the wet coat that I gripped. Nothing could have induced me to let go.

"I'll tell you when we get out of here," Lestrade replied, "I've a rope around my waist, attached to several very strong young Constables, all of whom are ready to pull us out of here. There should be someone on their way to you, Hopkins, to show you where we are."

I could hear pounding footsteps approaching, no doubt the messenger that Lestrade had dispatched before entering the water in his effort to reach Watson. The man had risked his life on a very slim chance, something that put me forever in his debt, no matter what the outcome of the next few moments was. I could only dimly perceive how difficult the swim must have been, the cold, freezing water would have been perfectly opaque and uncertain.

"It's not a terribly long swim, but it's difficult," Lestrade sighed, "And we need to go quickly because the water is rising where my men are. I'm going to put the derbies on us, John – that way we won't lose each other."

"I've ever been cuffed before," Watson said agreeably. Lestrade had to manoeuvre his left wrist into the derbies though, as Watson was shaking too badly with the cold to control the numb limb. The smaller man pronounced them ready and I clenched my fingers even more tightly in Watson's jacket. Two Constables pounded up to our location, their faces lighting up when they realised that Lestrade had found his target. Beside me, Hopkins released his grip on Lestrade's hand, wishing them both Godspeed in a slightly shaking voice.

"Let go old chap," Watson instructed me softly. I was paralysed with terror. Would this be my last moment of interaction with my dearest friend… the last chance I would have to look upon his living face?

"Mr Holmes," Hopkins couldn't reach my wrist to force me to lose my grip, and Lestrade was too busy keeping them afloat below us to interfere. I pressed my lips tightly together, struggling for composure and the strength to follow that soft order.

"Holmes, it's alright. Let go now," Watson tilted his head, his hair brushing my wrist, "I'll see you soon."

Such strength in those eyes! Such understanding and patient promise! With a gasp I let go and Lestrade wasted no time in instructing my Boswell to take a deep breath. Then they were gone from my sight.

0o0o0o0


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer – I don't own them, except for Sweetie

Author notes – this is the third in the 'Observations' series, which was entirely unintentional and seems to have taken on a life of its own! (Help! How do I stop this thing?????) It's a bit angst ridden at times and carries on from things mentioned in 'Boswell'.

PS – If you want to see exactly what Sweetie looks like, google 'Harlequin Dane' and click on images…

**Observations of a Yarder**

Lestrade had followed a series of subtle traces and marks denoting the passage of two men through the damp tunnels. The path twisted and turned and doubled back on itself. At several points I detected attempts to double bluff any pursuers, but I had always said that Lestrade was the most tenacious of the Yard Inspectors, a trait that stood us in good stead now.

One of the Constables had continued on to fetch stretchers and the police surgeon for both of the swimmers. The water they were swimming through was filthy, an ideal medium to convey infection and illness to those in contact with it. Already my mind was cataloguing the illnesses and trials that Watson was now facing, formulating treatments and physicians that could be of use to his recovery. I would have the best in the land for him, nothing less would do.

Once again a faint glow from the lanterns ahead warned us that we were reaching our destination. There were four men in the widened tunnel, all standing side on to us. They had discarded their heavy helmets and woollen capes and stood in their white shirts and braces, sleeves rolled back and feet spread wide as they pulled patiently and slowly on the rough rope that stretched from their hands to a set of sunken steps. In the glow from their lanterns water dripped and glistened like precious gems from the lifeline, splashing to the dirty bricks below with a sound that was almost musical. The four men moved in careful syncopation, their faces intent on their vital task.

As we skidded into the light, the lead man glanced over at us once before returning his focus to the rope in his hands. It was evident that they didn't dare haul too hard, lest the rope snap under the strain, or the knot about Lestrade slip in some fashion, leaving the blind swimmers below bereft of all aid.

"Get down by the stairs," he said gruffly, and I moved at once, not at all concerned about the chain of command in this situation. My dear Boswell has described me as a commanding man, one that dominates a situation; it would be false of me to say otherwise. However I knew that to impose my will now would cause a delay that could be fatal; as much as I wished to be able to control events, I knew that for once I had to trust my dear friend and the esteem he held the official force in was not misplaced.

Hopkins deposited his light so that we could see the short length of the stairs that were yet above the watermark and then positioned himself opposite me.

"Almost there, gents, steady on now," the lead man said, and I recognised Constable Whitehorse and his slightly monotone delivery. The water below suddenly heaved and frothed, and my hand struck out like a serpent, latching onto a collar. Hopkins also leapt forward and we were joined by the other Constables in pulling the coughing, floundering men from the water.

Lestrade was coughing terribly, and able to assist me in clearing the steps. Watson was still and silent and it was all I could do to control the urge to pull him from the others grips and shake him awake. Hopkins unlocked the derbies from their wrists and dropped Lestrade's own coat, which had been piled to one side with his hat and boots, around his shoulders.

"Easy Geoffrey," Hopkins sounded very young in that moment, "Just breathe, man."

"Watson?" Lestrade spluttered and the junior Inspector shook his head. I could have struck him for the lack of hope in his eyes. There were two Constables attempting rescue measures with my Boswell, and I was too paralysed to interfere. Every fibre of my being was urging the man to breathe, to move, to come back to life.

As if he'd heard my silent demands, my dearest friend obeyed. There was a choke, then a cough, then a series of splutters, followed by veritable gouts of foul water from his lungs. I shrugged my splashed coat off in a second, and when he moaned I was there, covering him with its scant warmth and calling his name.

"Holmes," the whisper was hoarse and barely recognisable, but all the more welcome for it, "Lestrade?"

How typical of the man, to return from deaths door and inquire about the well-being of another. I quirked a small smile at the dazed eyes and patted his shoulder gingerly, aware that it had been sorely strained and not wanting to awaken the pain he must soon feel.

"Quite alright, my dear chap," I controlled my voice only with supreme effort, "He's cold and wet at the most."

"I'm fine, John," Lestrade spoke up for himself, further easing my friends mind, "Just rest for a bit. We've got help on the way."

"More help… I cannot perceive of any more help needed than you've already given…" the rambling speech alarmed me, as did his lapse into sodden unconsciousness. Only by supreme force of will could I keep myself from shaking him. Instead I moved aside my coat and cautiously turned him to the side. The Constables around us bleated at me, but their annoying squawks halted when they saw the wound. It was seeping black blood still, and I cursed violently, tearing my muffler from my neck and attempting to bind it tightly.

"We need that doctor here, now!" I snapped at the nearest man, one who had accompanied us from the grate, who nodded and bolted for the exit, snatching a lamp as he ran. The crashing footsteps quickly receded as I rolled my poor friend onto his back once more and covered him with my long coat. His pallor was alarming, and his breathing too faint for comfort. In his unconscious state there was no sign of the strong man that I had come to rely upon. I could only hope that strength, which had been so sorely tried of late, would continue to sustain him. In the meantime…

"We'll carry him out. I'm not waiting here any longer," I grimly announced, "The faster we meet that doctor the better."

"Righto sir," Whitehorse said and began organising a makeshift stretcher out of the discarded uniforms. Lestrade got to his feet and dressed quickly, though Hopkins hovered over the older Inspector with a look of concern in his eye. Lestrade would also need careful watching to ensure he had not caught any illnesses from the foul water he had braved on Watson's behalf.

As we moved Watson onto the improvised conveyance I made a note to ensure that Lestrade's superiors at the Yard were given a full and clear picture of the excellence of the man. Once he was recovered, my dear friend would happily assist me with the task.

0o0o0o0


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer – I don't own them, except for Sweetie

Author notes – this is the third in the 'Observations' series, which was entirely unintentional and seems to have taken on a life of its own! (Help! How do I stop this thing?????) It's a bit angst ridden at times and carries on from things mentioned in 'Boswell'.

PS – If you want to see exactly what Sweetie looks like, google 'Harlequin Dane' and click on images…

**Observations of a Yarder**

We were not far along the tunnel when a small lantern appeared in front of us, along with a very ominous and familiar sound. I had been walking at the head of our little convoy, Lestrade at my side. The Constables were carrying Watson on a makeshift stretcher of woollen capes, in a method they were intimately familiar with. I had been given a lamp and instructions to 'help the Inspector', something I was proud to do. I'd linked arms with Lestrade, much to the mans' surprise, though he did not need the support. He was shivering with the cold, but more than able to walk out of here under his own powers.

Watson had made no sound as we transferred him onto the Constables capes. His head had lolled laxly in my hands; there had been no sign that he was aware of us and our gentle ministrations in the slightest. His unconscious state would at least protect him from the pain of movement, but was a concern to us all. Blood loss was no little factor in his condition, and though the wound had yet to show obvious signs of infection I had no doubt that Watson was in for a rough time of it. We had only just begun to face the trials ahead of us.

"What are you doing with _my_ Boswell?" the voice behind the lamp was eerie enough to make the hairs stand on my arms. There was something not quite right about it, though I would be hard pressed to identify what that was.

"We're taking him to medical help," Lestrade spoke up, stating the obvious in a sharp voice, "He's in desperate need of attention."

"It is not your place!" Jones, for I was sure it was he, hissed in a venomous tone, "He's _mine_."

"John Watson belongs to no man," I spoke up coldly, my fury making silence impossible, and Jones finally stepped into the light of our lanterns. He made a perfect target, but for the fact that we were all engaged. Hopkins was at the rear of our little convoy, and had no clear shot through our party. The Constables were all occupied with their grips on the stretcher. Watson was unconscious. I had two lanterns in one hand and Lestrade's arm in the other, plus I was not carrying any weapons. I had not had time to arm myself as we dashed out of Baker Street the first time, and had not the space to carry weapons plus my tools the second. Lestrade shifted a little in my grip and I cautiously loosed his arm, though we were careful not to betray what we had done.

"John Watson is the biographer of Sherlock Holmes!" Jones shouted, "You sir, are a foul impostor! In fact it was you who harmed him so grievously those years ago! I shall have my revenge!"

As he ranted I took in the details of the man before me. Jones was short, flabby and red haired. His blue eyes were cloudy and the whites were jaundiced. He was clearly ill, gripped by a fever and palsied, the gun in his hand wavering dangerously. He had yet to aim clearly at any one target, though he wouldn't have to. A lucky shot could do just as much damage as an intentional one.

"Stop it, Jones," Hopkins sounded weary, "We're well aware of who you are. There are reinforcements headed this way, and a platoon of Constables at the exits. Put that gun down and come along."

I marvelled that the weary, and slightly bored, tone of Hopkins had such a calming influence on Jones. Evidently he responded better to that than the cold fury of my own voice and I made an effort to master my temper. If he was clam, there was a better chance of us somehow overpowering him, or at least holding him at bay until the other stretcher party arrived as reinforcements. Instead of continuing to rant, Jones looked a little disconcerted, losing some of his momentum.

"What… no… I can't let you… take him from me…" he mumbled a little uncertainly, confusion clouding his eyes even further. Beside me, Lestrade coughed, rounding his back and turning towards the wall. I let him pull free of my grip, attempting to keep an eye on both him and Jones.

"We're not taking anyone from anyone," Hopkins sighed boredly, "You'll come along with us, now. Quietly."

"No… this isn't… my plan…" Jones shook his head, wavering on the spot in his indecision.

Lestrade put a hand on the wall to brace himself as he continued coughing. His free hand curled around his body and I sensed the alarm of his fellow Yarders. This sudden attack of illness was most unexpected, and possibly the first sign of infection from swimming through such dirty waters. That it had set in so quickly was highly unusual and a cause for concern.

"Sir?" one of the Constables asked nervously, shifting a little, but not letting go of his part of the woollen stretcher.

" 'M fine!" Lestrade gasped, and then coughed again, bending forward as he did. Something about the posture struck me as false; the coughs didn't seem hard enough to require such a posture. I made sure that my face gave no sign of my thoughts as Jones was watching us all closely.

"What's wrong with him?" Jones asked, frowning, "Is he sick?"

I felt myself redden in rage at the mildly curious tone, and bit back a scathing retort. The man's mind was completely useless! If Lestrade was not faking then this was a precursor of the illness that my Watson would suffer. Lestrade's coughs trailed off and he straightened, giving a little shuffle as he did to regain his balance. In the next instant his truncheon, which he had drawn under the cover of the coughing bout, was flying through the air to strike Jones directly between the eyes. The madman collapsed like a sack of potatoes, a look of surprise on his face.

Lestrade and I both leapt for him, securing the gun and preventing his lantern from setting fire to the passageway. We didn't have time to attempt a detour if Lestrade was also falling ill.

"Good shot, sir!" Whitehorse cheered from where he stood, and Lestrade sighed, bowing his head. I shut Jones' eyes, though the man didn't deserve any sign of respect, and then put a hand on Lestrade's shoulder.

"He's dead," I called back to our comrades, and then lowered my voice, "You had no idea that the blow would be fatal. Any other man, when struck there, would simply suffer a concussion."

"Won't look good on the report, though," Lestrade muttered, then helped me move the corpse to one side, "We'll send someone back for him. Let's get Watson to the surface."

I nodded and recollected my lanterns. Jones' would be left beside the body as a marker for the Constabulary. Lestrade stood with a gusty sigh, a sure sign that there was nothing wrong with his lungs despite the very good impersonation he had given of an asthma sufferer only a moment ago. As we hurried on, I made a note to file my own report with Lestrade's superiors, ensuring that no harm came to his career over Jones' death.

It was the least I could do.

0o0o0o0


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer – I don't own them, except for Sweetie

Author notes – this is the third in the 'Observations' series, which was entirely unintentional and seems to have taken on a life of its own! (Help! How do I stop this thing?????) It's a bit angst ridden at times and carries on from things mentioned in 'Boswell'.

PS – If you want to see exactly what Sweetie looks like, google 'Harlequin Dane' and click on images…

**Observations of a Yarder**

**Epilogue**

I shook Lestrade's hand as we emerged from the courtroom, pleased that I would be able to return to Baker Street with a positive report for Watson. Jones death had been the subject of an inquest, and I had been forced to leave my still very ill Boswell fretting in our flat as I attended court to testify. Lestrade had been in no real danger, not with so many people witness to Jones' state, actions and persecution of an innocent man, but my dear friend had worried none-the-less that a miscarriage of justice would occur.

No charges had been brought against Lestrade, which was as it should be, and he was free to resume full duties at the Yard.

"Come back to Baker Street with me," I suggested on a whim, "Watson will be anxious for news, and more than ready for company. He has become ever increasingly restless of late, which is not good for his health."

Lestrade had suffered a minor head cold, which had been very cautiously monitored and rigorously treated to stave off any further infection. It was the sole after effect he had suffered from his swim through that filthy water, and I was pleased that he had not contracted worse. Watson had not been so lucky. His wound had become infected, and was complicated by pneumonia. For over a week he had lingered at deaths door.

I knew my Watson, though, and as I anticipated, though not without some anxiety, the man had rallied. In the weeks that followed he had been unconscious more often than not, but those few times he was awake he was well aware of the events around him. It was somewhat disconcerting to look up from reading the paper or playing my violin and find his intent gaze upon me. He always seemed pleased to have been watching me without my knowledge and we turned it into something of a competition – how long could he observe me before I caught him. A silly amusement for the sickroom, but it did no harm and helped buoy his spirits a little. His minor victories were all he had to cling to in the midst of misery and pain. The infected wound was painful, and exacerbated by the wracking coughs that shuddered through him.

He had been transferred to Baker Street at his insistence, which I had fervently seconded, and with his surgeon's reluctant agreement. Sir Oakshot had not been able to deny that people with compromised immune systems did better in their own homes than hospital – the potential for picking up a secondary or even tertiary infection was increased in a place were so many ill people were. Mrs Hudson had been delighted at the chance to once more nurse Watson back to health, though he was frailer now than he had been when he first moved into our rooms a decade ago. Lestrade would be the first person outside our household to be admitted to my friend's sickroom; admittedly he was in the best position to soothe Watson's concerns about the effect that Jones' death might have upon his career.

"If you are sure, Holmes," Lestrade recalled my wandering thoughts, and I nodded a little impatiently.

"Quite sure, Lestrade," I reiterated, and thus gained a companion in the cab. There had been regular inquiries after Watson's health whilst he was in hospital from the Yard, but once he returned to Baker Street we were inundated with well wishers. All knew better than to seek a visit with my dearest friend, but Mrs Hudson soon found that she was not in want of food to tempt Watson's non-existent appetite as the wives of the Yard all sent around their contributions. Every shift change saw the Baker Street Constable inquiring about my dear Boswell, and more than one Inspector dropped around 'to see if anything was needed' over the course of the day.

Mrs Hudson met us at the door and made quite the fuss over Lestrade and his glad tidings before sending us up to Watson.

"He's fretting," she confided, worry marking her brow, "It's making him restless."

We bounded up the stairs to the first floor and I ushered Lestrade straight into my own bedroom. I had decided that Watson would recover there, with easy access to the sitting room. Once he was able to leave his sickbed I did not want to see him attempting any stairs in an effort to reach our excellent couch. By the time he had been well enough to argue the point with me he had been installed in my room for some days, and I in his.

Watson's eyes had been closed, but at our entrance he opened them, scanning our faces anxiously. He was an excellent chap, to be so concerned about the career of his friend in the midst of serious illness, but I had expected nothing less.

"All clear, John," Lestrade beamed and settled himself into the basket chair I had dragged in from the sitting room, "No charges, and no disciplinary actions."

"Good," Watson sighed, shifting a little beneath the pile of blankets, "I'd have… been… there…"

"I know," Lestrade leaned forward, his tone kind He patted Watson's arm in a soothing manner, then sat back, "You've have been there in a flash if I needed you, but the statements of the witnesses, and Holmes in particular, made the matter more than clear to the judge."

"Excellent," Watson nodded, and then went into a series of wracking coughs that startled the good Inspector no end. Well used to the phenomenon I merely lifted my ailing friend up to rest against me, the elevation helping with the coughing. I had thrown a towel over my shoulder before doing so, as Watson was in no condition to cover his mouth politely and the discharge from his lungs was not pleasant. Lestrade's expression was a mixture of astonishment and concern, and it was not hard to deduce which expression was for whom. Watson's cough sounded terrible, and it wracked his frail form without mercy, hence the concern. The astonishment… I was well known for my aloof nature among the men of the Yard. We had hired a nurse for the evenings at Watson and Oakshot's insistence – Oakshot because he wanted to be sure that a trained person was responsible for part of Watson's care, and Watson because he wanted to lessen the burden he was placing on our shoulders. During the day Mrs Hudson and I took turns to see to the few needs he would admit to, and the duties that Oakshot instructed us upon. Watson disliked 'being such a burden' to us, though I was quick to disabuse him of that notion.

In addition, when Mrs Hudson had heard him use that particular word in connection to himself she'd had several words for him in return. That little dust up had _quite_ settled the issue.

Watson quieted and I rubbed his back as I had seen Mrs Hudson do, letting him slump against me to catch his breath. Laying him down immediately after a bout such as this sometimes triggered a second one, or so we had learned. Mrs Hudson had given me _detailed_ instructions in the nursing of my dear friend, which I was required to adhere to if I wanted to be let into his sickroom. As I had no doubt that she would carry out her threat of banishing me permanently I stuck to them religiously. Not even Watson could dissuade me from carrying out Mrs Hudson's orders, and nor would he be able to until we could have a conversation that was not delimited by gasps for breath between words.

"Alright?" I asked after a moment and Watson nodded, making no move to lay back. I let him rest a bit longer, cutting my eyes at the water jug. Lestrade caught on after a moment and poured a glass. I helped Watson to drink it down and then resettled him on the pillows, which were sufficient to allow him to half sit up.

"You mustn't talk so much, old chap," I scolded, "It sets off that cough. Ah!" I raised a hand when he looked as if he would object, "I know that you need to clear your lungs, but we do that four times a day already. These bouts simply exhaust your energy, which you need to heal."

Watson rolled his eyes very expressively, making Lestrade turn a snicker into a very unconvincing cough. He gave my friend an innocent look that fooled no one, and I was pleased to see some colour creep into Watson's cheeks in the wake of his lungs fit. The poor man had been getting frightfully bored, confined constantly to his bed and too exhausted to read or write in his journal. I read the papers to him every day, whether he was interested in the articles or not, and Mrs Hudson read his romantic drivel to him of an afternoon. However I believed I could trust Lestrade to entertain him for a short while, under Mrs Hudson's watchful eye.

"I think I shall leave you to your visit Lestrade, though Mrs Hudson will be up in a moment. It is time for the beast's exercise, something which has sadly fallen to my lot," I teased my friend, who pulled a face. Truthfully Sweetie was not as objectionable a companion as one might think, and though I had raised a small fuss about the mandatory and pointless exercise I gained seeing to hers, I did not mind the beast quite as much now. She lurked constantly in the sitting room outside my bedroom door, but was not allowed a visit with her master for fear her fur would set off his lungs. Her devotion was evident, and she always received our walks well.

"In truth, Lestrade, it is the only time I am allowed to smoke," I continued to tease, and Watson propped himself gingerly higher on the pillows.

"She's … never… been… fitter…" he gasped out, and Lestrade snorted.

"Still smoke like a chimney, hey Mr Holmes?" he teased on Watson's behalf.

I didn't dignify that with a response.

0o0o0o0

End

0o0o0o0

Yes I'm serious!

Next fic to address the Red Silk Killer – and I might possibly round out the Observation series with two more – Observations of a Lodger (before Watson was married) and Observations of a Bee Keeper (after Holmes retires)… though if anyone else wants to play in this arc then by all means help yourselves…


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